


Only For Tonight

by zerogramsfat



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:29:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6639598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zerogramsfat/pseuds/zerogramsfat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friend asked me to write a fluff prompt for Deimos/Phobos - so here's some hand holding after Phobos has a rough day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only For Tonight

“…these are incorrect.”

Phobos stared at the commander with a look of stifled horror.

_“Sir?”_

“These calculations. They’re incorrect. Redo them.”

“I’ve gone over them twice, you haven’t even looked at them -- they are accurate—“

“Are you arguing with me, _Jules_.”

The way Cook said his name made the air from his lungs leave so rapidly that he thought there was an air breach in the room, but he couldn’t look to see because the chilled grip of his superior’s gaze that held his. Phobos new what was coming next and it _infuriated and terrified him_.

“It seems you may have a… discipline problem, _Jules_ , is that something I need to notate?”

The navigator’s lips were pressed shut and a harsh breath of air left his nose in defiance.

“No, _sir_.”

Cook’s pen tapped pointedly as he analyzed Phobos with a familiar hungry gaze before leaning back and setting it down with a light sigh.

“You don’t **have** to redo them… I could have one of the _younger_ navigators take it over…”

“No--! No, si _r,_ I’ll-I’ll go over them again—“

As he reached out to grab the data pad, Cook’s pen pressed hard at the edge of the device causing the blond to pause.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, _Jules_ …”

Phobos knew what he meant, he was being _suggestive_ , and pandering to a side of him that was no longer there.

He’d rather die than let Cook get the upper hand again, passing his work off to someone else so he could get his kicks.

Not again.

“…Apparently it does. I have someone waiting for me right now, just **itching** in anticipation, so I need to be off as soon as possible…” _Two can play that game_ , but a memory, a small flicker of dark hair and cold, but inviting eyes flashed in front of him and he trailed off trying to prevent himself from letting the dusted pink take over his face. Regaining his composure, he added the final nail in the coffin that was _them_ , “and I believe it’s **Phobos** to you… **sir**.”

Cook’s eyes narrowed and the pen reluctantly released the work before going back to its original duties and when he spoke, there was a newfound _bite_ to his words.

“I expect that back on my desk _tomorrow_ , **Phobos**. You’re dismissed.”

 

* * *

 

In the hallway, Phobos replayed the scene in his head a million times as he slowly made the long trek back to his bunk. He was flustered, but not because of the hours of work he knew he had to redo or that Cook was trying to pass off his tasks so he could try and fuck him again. He was flustered because he thought of _Deimos_.

DEIMOS at a time like that and not only that, but he said it to the commander. Maybe not outright, but Phobos knew.

_Phobos knew he rejected the commander for Deimos._

A high pitched sound left the navigator’s mouth as he tried to process it all - the confidence he had built up previously had left his body at the instant he tried to quantify what exactly he and his fighter actually were that he would turn down the _commander_.

The blond turn pink remembering the soft way the fighter smiled when he had praised him and the gentle way his fingers curled around his to calm him down when things weren’t going _just_ right before slipping away. They had been getting closer – what started off as Phobos meanly testing the limits of Deimos’ obedience with harsh words and snapping fingers suddenly turning into…?

Passerbys wondered if the navigator in the hall was broken – red faced and making a high pitched noise that they could swear only dogs could hear, but once he looked up and noticed people were staring, he composed himself as best he could and stomped off down the hall.

Uncertainties crashed against him like cold waves at his skin causing goose bumps to rise as he approached the door to his bunk. There was a moment of hesitation before he opened it, swallowing hard knowing he’d have to confront _him_ on the other side. Part of him wanted to just resort back to old habits, go back to Cook. It would easier to just let him do what he wanted with his body than have to deal with the emotional **uncertainty** of the man who _was_ in fact waiting for him like he always did…

The data pad suddenly felt heavy in his hands with the weight of the work he knew was right, but had to go over again because bitter old men couldn’t handle **rejection.** The word danced its way around the blond’s mind causing him to stand straighter. Phobos _had_ rejected the commander… He told him _no_. A smug confidence filled his bones – he didn’t need Cook and he sure as hell didn’t have _feelings_ for Deimos… It was a fluke, a passing thought in the heat of the moment. It was real. _It couldn’t be real_.

The familiar cockiness that the navigator was known for came rushing back only to falter when he heard movement and the soft click of the bunk door open.

Confused and surprised eyes blinked up at him when Deimos opened the door, silently asking why he had been hovering only to soften at the small parts around his eyes to show _concern_. Phobos has been with the fighter long enough to know the subtleties in his face and a sharp pang hit his heart.

First Cook and now _this?_

“What?” the navigator hissed as he pushed his way into the room, “Don’t give me that look. I have work to do, so be—“ his words trailed off with a huff, as it seemed rather redundant to tell the fighter to _be quiet_.“

Just stay out of my way!”

Without looking at him, Phobos could feel Deimos’ piercing eyes dissect his movements as he dropped onto the bed and started pulling up the many graphs and calculations he now had to redo, but after a minute of silence, the blond slapped the data pad on his knees.

It was hard to focus when his thoughts were still replaying the words he had spoken earlier, avoiding the ultimate conclusion his body had come to but that his mind was still trying to deny. Something was there and Deimos was still _staring_ and **it wasn’t helping**.

“Shouldn’t you be off kissing Cain’s ass or something?”

He was being mean on purpose and he could see the slight flinch in the fighter’s body at the mention of Cain as he looked away. Oddly enough he couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen them together…

Phobos returned to his work ignoring the crest fallen man that hovered in the door way, only to see him silently grab his jacket and step out of the room.

 _No, he wouldn’t let himself feel guilty, he had work to do… he couldn’t feel guilty_ … he did this all the time to the fighter, why was it suddenly feeling so different?

An hour into his work, the rooms lights had dimmed down due to the lack of movement and all Phobos could think to do was give a quiet frustrated groan. He was tired, emotionally exhausted, and the numbers all melted into a foreign language his weary eyes couldn’t translate.

He needed a break, just a small one. He’d close his eyes only for a second…

 

Phobos awoke with a sharp intake of air. He had fallen asleep with the data pad still resting on his chest and he turned his head just slightly to see that it had been almost three hours since he had decided to rest his eyes. He let out a quiet annoyed sigh, realizing that the work was never going to be done and he’d have to crawl back to Cook just to have the feeling of inadequacy amplified. As he went to shift upwards, he felt something in his hand, something _familiar_. Looking down to see what it was, the tension in his body rocked to the point where he was unable to move.

Deimos was asleep, still in his sleeveless shirt and standard issue pants from the day, kneeling at the edge of his bed with his face comfortably resting in the crevice of his elbow while his other hand was gingerly wrapped around his. Small warm fingers entwined themselves around his thumb delicately tracing the side of his palm.

It was rare to see him this relaxed, even Phobos who shared this small space with him rarely ever saw him this close, and it was such a surprising sight--

The fighter began to stir, feeling the tension that was rising in the navigator’s fingers, and slowly blinked his eyes open with a sleepy gaze that trailed up his arm until they met with the blond. A flash of emotions ran through the smalls of Deimos’ lips – a mixture of relief, fear, nervousness and… something else the blond couldn’t quite catch – and he started to rise, surely to head back to his own bed, but a panic was rising in Phobos. An unfounded panic, one he didn’t understand, set in as the fighter slowly dragged his fingers across his palms to relinquish his hold of him. A panic that made him feel like if he let him go now, he wasn’t going to come back?

Before Deimos’ hand had reached his fingertips, Phobos sat up and grabbed hold with a look that pleaded him not to go. His body was acting on its own and his lips pressed together to hold in the desperation for how badly he wanted the affection. He _needed_ that contact. He had a bad day, things weren’t going just right, wasn’t his fighter supposed to be there for him? Why do this while he slept? Why was he leaving now? Wasn’t Deimos supposed to hold his hand when things got tough? Wasn’t that the unspoken rule? Wasn’t that how it had always been?

Silence filled the room as Deimos stared at the pale hand clutching onto his, neither man moving as they both tried to figure out what was happening. It was clear Deimos hadn’t expected Phobos to react this way, settling on his fate of being snapped at or ridiculed and it was **more** than clear Phobos had no idea where to go from there, holding the hand of his fighter unsure of what to say next.

“I--,” the blond needed to say something, anything, the heat was rising to his face full of embarrassment and uneasiness; he needed to gain control of himself and _fast_.

“Never mind,” It was all he could manage as he looked away letting go of the warm hand, staring at the data pad that had shifted into his lap. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the fighter, he didn’t want to see whatever look he had to give, he didn’t want to read whatever lines in his face were speaking… but he was quickly forced back into reality when a soft _thump_ jolted his body into the present.

Deimos had sat at the edge of the bed and gently flopped his head down on Phobos’ pillow with his back facing the navigator. Shuffling just slightly to get comfortable, he closed his eyes with a small smile that quickly disappeared just as soon as it had appeared.

Phobos’ mouth opened and closed, unsure if it was going to rattle off the readied arsenal of insults to get the fighter _off his fucking bed_ , but the flustered part of him, the _shy_ part of him that wanted Deimos to stay was burning in his palms. The body next to him was comfortable, _warm_ , although he was small he was strong and the dim lights of the room made his back look… _inviting_.

The data pad made a soft clattering sound as Phobos leaned over to place it on the bedside table, and Deimos opened his eyes with curious wonder at the body that was over him. He was shifting to try and see Phobos’ face, but with a sudden quickness that surprised even him, Phobos pushed Deimos back to his side. In the dark of the room the blond managed to snap out the few words trying to mask the shyness behind them.

“Don’t. Move. Just… _don’t_ ,” it sounded more like he was pleading, “And this is only for tonight! Ok? Only because I had a bad day…”

The blond shuffled down in the darkness to rest his own head on the pillow without touching him, eyes still staring at the way the cloth hung at the nape of the fighter’s neck when he felt movement.

“ _What did I just say???_ ” He hissed out in a panic, the navigator shuffling back into the wall as the fighter turned his whole body to meet him face to face.

He was closer, far closer than they had ever been and the blond couldn’t force any more words out, all of them catching in his throat, only for the fighter to wrap his arms around his chest in the most innocent way. Deimos’ face was resting against his rapidly beating heart and Phobos went ridged trying to process it all. Small fingers gave a reassuring squeeze at his back as if reminding the man to breathe and Phobos couldn’t help but give out the smallest shuddering sigh as if his whole body had been waiting for this moment.

The navigator could feel the soft breath at his chest whose steady rhythm helped restart his own and after a minute of tense silence, he finally could feel his body relax into the other’s. He was sinking lower into the mattress, taking in the familiar yet oddly new smell of the man that slinked into his space, and he could already feel himself memorizing the different notes of soap, metal, and sweat that were comforting him.

Without meaning to, Phobos’ head shifted closer to the fighter’s, taking in his hair, and his arm rested comfortably over the man’s shoulders.

 _Only for tonight_ , he kept trying to tell himself as his lidded eyes began to drift off into sleep, _only for tonight_ … but even he knew that was a lie.

 


End file.
